


Memories

by fizzysodas



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 12:05:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9122866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzysodas/pseuds/fizzysodas
Summary: Shiro struggles to remember his time with the Galra. Matt suffers alone in the Galra prisons. Keith loves Lance and Lance loves Keith. Pidge wants her brother and Hunk wants to save everyone.





	

The cell smelled of dried blood and heartache. His once gorgeous brown hair was thick and red with blood. His thin leg was scared and his bony wrists were sore. He couldn’t feel anything, save for the throbbing in his shin and the beating in his chest. He kept his eyes closed as he lay there, waking up his body, on the cool concrete floor.  

He evened his breathing and tried to move his fingers. It was cold in the cell, too cold. Maybe it was his thin jumpsuit or maybe it was because he was in space or maybe it was because he was dying. He curled his toes and winced at the pain in his shin. He tried moving his hands.

Groaning, he lifted himself off the floor. His head immediately felt dizzy. He gasped and cradled his head in his hands. He felt wet tears forming in his eyes and willed them not to fall. He needed to conserve water. He wanted to live.

His lips were chapped and broken. He'd bitten them many times and had many scabs. He licked them and softly pursed his lips. He wrung his fingers into his hair and held on tightly, like if he didn’t his head might fall off and roll into oblivion.

Footsteps echoed down the hall and he winced at the loud noise. He recognized the voices, though. The tough and unsettling language of his captures. He didn’t know much about their culture or what they were called, only that they were evil.

Water. No food. Leave. Broken.

He had picked up a few words over time; he would be an idiot not too. He didn’t think they had vowels or nouns, maybe something different. But there were a few important translatable words. Food, water, and death had been important ones. His father understood a few more, he was smart like that and had been trying to help him learn.

The cell door was yanked open with some grabbled talk and he cowed in fear. He clutched his head tighter and tucked his knees in. The guards didn’t even acknowledge him, before tossing a bucket of water on the floor and slamming the door shut. The walls shook and the water sloshed.

The guards marched away, talking and joking. The boy eyed the water and swallowed. His throat was raw and he wanted, needed that water. He felt tears returning and he dug his fingers into his scalp. Maybe he’d draw blood.

He inched forward, babying his shin, slowly. He winced when his shin ran against the cold concrete and when his head bustled around too much. When the water was in reaching distance he pulled his closer and reached his hands inside. Cupping the water he brought it up to his mouth and swallowed it in a large gulp.

It was warm and didn’t taste like Earth water, but it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He thanked God and whatever force watched over him, carefully drinking more. He wanted to use some of it to wash off his bloody hands and clean his hair, but he didn’t want to waste it. Water was such a precious thing. If he was going to use it for anything, other than drinking, he’d use it for cleaning the wound on his shin.

It was still throbbing and it looked a little green under the dim light. He didn’t feel like messing with it right now, he was tired and sore. Shaking his head he took another drink of water before scooting back to his corner.  

He huddled up, tucking his good leg into his chest and gingerly laying out his bad one. He carefully held his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

He began a game.

It was a game he played when he was younger. First, he would find a quiet spot, where he was alone. He would close his eyes, even his breathing, and clear his head. Sometimes, if he was upset, it took awhile and other times he could clear his mind in a matter of minutes.

When his head was cleared and his breathing was even he began to organize his brain. He really couldn’t organize his brain that was impossible. But he could go over all his memories, cringing at the awkward ones, laughing at the funny ones, frowning at the sad ones, and smiling at the happy ones.

As a child, the game was for fun, something to do to pass the time. When he started school he did it when he was sad and lonely. After the Kerberos Mission, he did it to rid of the painful memories.

He sorted through his most recent memory, only hours ago.

_“Stay close to me Matt,” muttered Shiro, grabbing for Matt’s wrist and pulling him closer. Matt mutely grabbed Shiro’s arm in response._

_They, the guards, had marched into the cells and picked out the weakest prisoners. His father had been one of them. The other prisoners talked of a prison camp and how the weak ones were lucky. Matt wasn’t sure about that._

_A few minutes later a new set of guards had arrived. Their eyes raked through the prisoners with precision. They pointed at six prisoners—Matt and Shiro included—and marched them out of the cells and down a dark, low hallway. Fear was a universal thing, every living thing felt it. Matt realized this soon and relied on it. The other prisoners understood the Galra better and knew when things were bad. Matt trusted their fear and reciprocated it._

_They reached a door and stopped. The guards began to organize them. Shiro clutched Matt’s wrist tighter and wrapped his arm around his waist. Matt tightens his grip on Shiro’s arm. He kept his head low and avoided eye contact._

_Matt was good at being inconspicuous. He was small and scared,  like every other prisoner here. Shiro, though, was never scared. And if he was he didn’t show it. He was also muscular and strong, one of the strongest prisoners. Matt had been envious of Shiro’s strength, he told him this. But Shiro had quickly demolished that jealousy._

_“I attract them, Matt.” He’d said. “They see me. They know I’m here and they watch me. I’m a threat and they will not hesitate to hurt me if I step out of line. Do not envy me, Matt. Don’t.”_

_And Matt had stopped. Instead, he respected Shiro. He looked up to him and loved him even more._

_“That one.”_

_Matt heard those words perfectly. He knew who they were talking about, too. He looked up and saw the taller guard pointing at him. A smirk on his face. Matt paled. He wasn’t sure what they wanted him for, but they wanted him for something. And something was never good around here._

_“W-what?” he stuttered out._

_“To fight, young one.” whispered a prisoner, “They want you to fight first.”_

_Matt had heard about these fights. Like the gladiators in history textbooks, like the movies, and books. They were bloody and ruthless. Fighting was a death sentence._

_“He can’t!” yelled Shiro, pushing forward towards the guard. Matt was numb._

_“You care for this one?” asked the guard._

_Shiro hesitated, but it was too late. The guard snapped orders and Matt was dragged forward. He stood, first in the line, facing the doors. He could hear screams and shouts from the other side. He turned towards Shiro behind him._

_“I can’t do this, Shiro.” he whispered._

_“Yes,” he said, “You can.”_

_The doors were dragged open. A low arena with dirt and large blocks lay before him. When he looked up there were stands, full of cheering Galrans. He swallowed thickly and prayed that his culture never came to this._

_Across the arena, the doors opened. A huge monster stepped out._

_Matt gagged slightly and throw up, he couldn’t help it, he was going to die. And knowing that he was going to die painfully for enjoyment was sickening. There wasn’t much to throw up, but he kept gagging, he felt like choking._

_He felt Shiro’s heavy hand on his back. He knew Shiro was going to encourage him, tell him something sweet and promise him lifeless things. He couldn’t hear those things. Not now._

_“I—I—I can’t,” he said, “I’m going to die. I don’t want to die, Shiro!”_

_“Matt—“_

_A guard pushed Shiro back and Matt forward. They pushed a crowbar into his hands. Matt couldn’t believe it. The monster roared and the raised his large weapon, a glowing staff._

_“Move!”_

_Matt was pulled backward into another prisoner. Shiro yanked the crowbar from his hand and raise it above his head._

_“This is my fight!”_

_He wasn’t Shiro. He was something else, something dark. Matt gasped in shock and fear._

_When Shiro attacked him, slicing his shin and pushing him to ground, straddling his hips and pressing his hands to the side of his face, Matt knew that this was different._

_“I want blood!” yelled Shiro, in Matt’s face. Then in a discreet whisper, “I’ll be back. I will.”_

_He was pulled away and pushed into the arena. Matt was dragged away, injured now and unable to fight. He didn’t see the fight, he was out of sight before it could immense, but he did hear the cheers and gasps from the crowd._

A small tear welled in his eye. He couldn’t hold it back and let it slid off his thin check on onto his arm. He swallowed and willed himself to not cry anymore. He bit his lip, breaking a scab, the blood tasted weak and dead.

“Shiro,” he mumbled, “Where are you?”

*

Everything has been a blur for Shiro. Maybe it wasn’t always a blur, he didn’t think it was, but now it was. He knew the memories were there. He could taste them in the wind, see them in a blurred light, and feel them in a dream. They were right there. So close, yet so far.

It was frustrating. He wanted to scream and rip out his hair, but he also wanted to remember.

He laid on his bed (was it even his?), his hands behind his head and his legs crossed. His eyes were closed and his face was relaxed. He was trying to remember something.

But it was all blurred and static-like. He could remember the language, something he didn’t know, and see the purple lighting. But that didn’t matter. The voices were muffled and the lighting was blocking out anything important.

Shiro figured that if he actually walked around a Galra ship or fought one he could remember. He didn’t figure, he knew. It had happened every time they bordered a ship in secret or fought with a monster. He always got something back, something small, but always something.

He couldn’t just walk up to Allura and ask her if he could board more Galra ships and fight more monsters. She’d think he’d gone crazy. Keith would worry, Pidge would freak, Lance would crack bad jokes and stress in secret, Hunk would stress either way, and Coran would make him eat weird Altean medicines.

No. He wouldn’t ask for that. He’d just lie here and try.

A quick knock jerked Shiro out his thoughts. He raised his head and looked towards the door. Another knock.

“Shiro?”

“Come in, Keith.” He said, lying back down.

The door slid open and slid shut. Keith’s light footsteps echoed off the walls. Keith sat down on the bed and sighed.

“What’s up?” asked Shiro.

“Nothing,” said Keith, quickly.

“Uh-huh.” Shiro scooted up and pulled himself into a sitting position. He leaned against the backboard and watched Keith. He had his hand in his lap and his shoulders were slouched a little.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Keith.

“I’m trying to remember something.”

“Remember what?”

“Nothing in particular—just something.”

“Oh,” whispered Keith, nodding. He pursed his lips and kept nodding.

“Anything you want to tell me?” asked Shiro. He leaned his head forward a bit.

“Um,” mumbled Keith, “Do you think that, say, Lance?”

Keith throws his hands up and turned to Lance; “Is, I don’t know, attractive?”

When Shiro didn’t immediately reply Keith scoffed and stood up.

“It’s—whatever.”

“Wait, Keith!” said Shiro, leaning forward.

Keith paused. Hesitantly he turned around.

“I think Lance would agree with you.”

A small blush appeared on Keith’s cheeks; he ducked his head, nodded and shuffled out of the room.

Sighing, Shiro leaned back on the bed.

He didn’t think he could try and remember now. His head was erupting with ideas and thoughts and worries.

“I could really go for some coffee right now.” he murmured to himself.  


End file.
